The mercury has burrowed to a level somewhere below zero. I can feel the cold gnawing at my fingers - even through the thick gloves that I have pressed, desperately, to my sides. And the wind is relentless, rushing and roaring at Mount Skalafell, plainly outraged that anyone should take to its 1800ft summit in such inhospitable conditions. As if to emphasise the general inclemency, a small chunk of ice falls from the TV mast behind, just missing my feet as it lands with an audible thwack.

But it doesn’t matter. In fact, I barely notice. Because above, the sky is moving. Splattered against the stars, a hazy patch of white is swirling, like milk poured into black coffee.

A few hours earlier, my guide Ragnar Lovdal – a swarthy, thoughtful Icelander – had predicted this, almost sniffing the air as he declared that the cloudless heavens would hold their clarity into evening. He was right. And there they are. The Northern Lights.

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In theory, I should be disappointed. I’ve listened to the dry science, to the explanation that, far from being supernatural, this iridescent display occurs when particles emitted by the sun hit the magnetic fields above the earth’s poles. And this is by no means the most dazzling example of aurora borealis – a phenomenon that can dance through a half-rainbow of yellows, greens and reds depending on the conditions and the viewer’s proximity to the top of the globe. To be truthful, the Northern Lights over my head are a dim, low-level outbreak, diluted by the glow from Reykjavik, ten miles north-west.

Yet I’m elated. A wave of excitement crackles across the tour group keeping me company on this frozen peak. After three nights under a shrouded firmament, we are finally in the presence of something that seems genuinely magical, even otherworldly.

Be my light, be my guide: The Northern Lights are a regular presence in the skies above Iceland between October and March

This is all rather fitting. The Northern Lights and Iceland are a happy partnership. Not only are the aurora borealis utterly at home here – visible five months a year (between early October and mid-March) – but Iceland is a country that practically defines the word ‘otherworldly’. Huddled just beneath the Arctic Circle, 200 miles south-east of Greenland, it is not like other countries. This 40,000-square-mile block of raw terrain is Europe’s loneliest, most westerly outpost.

But its chilly seclusion is misleading. The ground here is alive – as anyone who had a flight cancelled back in the spring, or found themselves stranded in their Balearic holiday villa, knows all too well. Iceland might be remote, but the tantrums thrown by its bad-tempered bedrock have, lately, been a cause of international stress. The eruption of the Eyjafjallajokull volcano in March did more than foist a vast cloud of ash over Europe – and almost choke the air industry. It made Iceland notorious.

The reasons for its tetchiness are simple. Though technically an island, Iceland is also the highest (and only above-water) section of the planet’s longest mountain range, the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Moreover, the Ridge is the line where the North American and Eurasian continental plates meet. Each year, Iceland grows by an imperceptible 2cm as these tectonic slabs slide apart. This tug-of-war plays out in a thrilling clash of hot and cold – a duel between the surface (which lies suffocated by snow in the coldest corners of the calendar) and the geological turmoil that rages beneath (and often pours forth via the endless holes, pits and scars pockmarked across the chafed landscape).

Two days before my date with the Northern Lights, I join Ragnar for a drive around the Golden Circle – a 200-mile route that ties together the key sights in the south and centre of the country. The view through the windscreen of the Land Rover is, in parts, astonishingly barren – a charred volcanic panorama all the more dramatic for being seen in the darkest of the seasons. The sun rises sluggishly over Iceland in winter, scraping its belly on the horizon at around ten, then hanging low and surly. The effect is almost lunar, wan light ebbing over plains of cooled lava and clots of basalt.

She's a waterfall: Gullfoss is Iceland's most impressive natural feature - a three-step waterfall where rainbows play across the spray

Just before lunchtime, we catch a glimpse of Hekla – a colleague of Eyjafjallajokull, but a cantankerous lady who has proved herself far readier to push the red button. This 4882ft volcano has erupted on four occasions in the last 30 years (most recently in 2000). In medieval times, the brave souls who tried to carve a living in this harsh environment regarded her caldera as the mouth of Hell. Observing her from afar, I’m almost convinced that there is truth in this. But then, there is something about the scene that bypasses Christianity, that binds it to the 9th century, when Norse settlers first came ashore. This is the realm of the lost pagan gods, of Thor, Odin and Freyja.

It is an impression that stays with me as we visit the marvels of the Golden Circle. Gullfoss is a foaming wonder, a three-step waterfall where the River Hvita churns and spits its way through a steep-sided canyon (while I stand on the slippery edge and gaze hypnotised at the angry torrent below). Geysir, meanwhile, is a geyser of such fame that its name has become a recognised term – though nowadays it is something of a spent force, erupting once every 12 hours. Its thunder has been stolen by Strokkur, a second geyser 50 metres away, so enthusiastic that it fires jets of water and steam from its black crater every five minutes, leaving the stench of sulphur heavy in the air.

Then there is Thingvellir, a national park that frames the rift valley where the tectonic plates go toe to toe. Evidence of their rivalry is everywhere – jagged trenches filled with water, great vertical walls of rock. According to local record, this was the site of the original Icelandic Parliament, in the 10th century. Even now, you can imagine it, stout bearded men gathered in conversation in this natural amphitheatre on the shore of the Thingvallavatn lake. It is a setting perfect for momentous decisions.

Steam and sulphur: The geyser Strokkur, which erupts once every five minutes, is one of the main stops on Iceland's Golden Circle tour

Iceland has come a long way in the ensuing millennium, not least since 1944 (when it seized the opportunity proffered by the Nazi occupation of Denmark and declared independence from its Scandinavian overlord), slowly transforming from fishing bolthole to unlikely financial powerhouse. But then came the crash, the seismic shocks of September 2008, when the country’s three main banks, bloated with over-ambitious debt, had to be nationalised. The tremors were felt across Europe – and certainly in Britain (the government is still attempting to retrieve assets buried in the collapse).

Signs of the crisis can be seen outside Reykjavik. The giant Kringlan shopping centre is virtually empty as I pass it on a Saturday afternoon, its car park a ghostly space almost entirely bereft of the vehicles meant to fill it. On the eastern outskirts, half-built housing developments wait in suspended animation, kerbstones and cul-de-sacs already laid out for homes that may never be constructed.

To take a purely callous approach, the situation has its advantages for British tourists, bringing a once hideously pricey destination within budgetary reach. The Krona has shed over a third of its value against the pound in the last two years, to the extent that a night out in Reykjavik’s lively bars (including Kaffibarinn, part-owned by the Blur singer Damon Albarn) now comes at, if not bargain rates (you still won't get too much change from a fiver for a beer), then (roughly) at UK prices.

Cold comforts: Reykjavik is a city that reveals pockets of charm on close inspection. But it is hard to miss the giant spire of the Hallgrimskirkja church

Reykjavik continues the game of hot-and-cold. At first glance it is unwelcoming and grey, designed for pragmatism, function and survival on the lip of a continent. But it soon reveals warm pockets of charm, and an arty ambience that permeates its many record stores and coffee shops.

Its museums and galleries are a culture vulture’s dream. Reykjavik City Museum offers ‘871±2’, a subterranean exhibition (www.minjasafnreykjavikur.is) that - despite the strange moniker - contains the foundations of the city’s first (9th century) house, unearthed during excavations for a hotel in 2001. And Reykjavik Art Museum is a delight - a showcase for a range of modern works, slotted into a suitably striking structure of stripped walls and interrogation-cell-bright lighting (www.artmuseum.is).

Even City Hall is in on the act, hosting art shows in its breezy rooms of bare stone and glass on the perimeter of a small lake – while Square (www.square.is) is a defiantly up-to-the-minute restaurant that serves the latest flourishes in Icelandic cuisine (with plenty of emphasis on pork and seafood) and ‘surprise cocktails’. The exact composition of these potent tipples, each named after a different Icelandic landmark, only becomes clear when they reach the table. I pick ‘Hekla’, which turns out to be a large glass of implausibly red blackcurrant liquor, spiced with slices of chile. Hot and cold again.

I round off my weekend at Iceland’s ultimate postcard image. Approached by road, the Blue Lagoon (www.bluelagoon.com) looks as hellish as Hekla, confined to a cracked world 30 miles south-west of Reykjavik. As we pull up nearby, the sun is wearing a guise that you only normally see in horror films - compressed to a flat, pale disc, trapped behind the steam that belches and rears from the lava-heated water (and the big geo-thermal power station that lurks, mildly incongruously, next door).

I got the blues: The Blue Lagoon can look oddly hellish on approach, steam bursting from the cracked earth. But it remains one of Iceland's most photogenic - and pleasant - tourist experiences

The reality is, of course, anything but hellish. And as I dig my toes into the soft ooze at the bottom (a white gunk that is apparently wonderful for the skin), I ponder that Iceland is not so hard and rugged after all – only for a fat burp of steam to disturb my sleepy reverie. Somewhere, it seems, Thor – briefly laying down the hammer with which he whacked Eyjafjallajokull into life – would beg to differ.

Travel Facts

A four-night ‘Northern Lights’ break to Iceland costs from £725 per
person with Iceland2Go (0845 2773390, www.iceland2go.com), including
return flights from Manchester with Icelandair, two nights at the Hotel
Ranga (on the Golden Circle), two nights at the Hilton Reykjavik
Nordica and car hire. Northern Lights hunts (£85) and Golden Circle
tours by Land Rover (£160) can be booked via Superjeep (00354 6601499, www.superjeep.is). Icelandair flies to Keflavik from
Heathrow, Manchester and Glasgow (www.icelandair.co.uk) . More on Iceland at www.visiticeland.com.